Spring has arrived in personam in this pretty etching by French book illustrator and engraver François-Antoine Aveline. He was born 1718 in Paris as the son of the engraver Antoine Aveline (1691-1743) and the grandson of Pierre Aveline the Elder (1654-1722). After the death of his father, he left Paris around 1750 for London. Here he worked for Wiliam Hogarth (1697-1764), creating satirical scenes like the Election print. He seemed to have changed his name to F. Aviline, perhaps to facilitate a proper pronouncation of his French name by his English speaking buyers.

Le Printemps (Spring) presented here is the first in a series of four prints after designs by his father Pierre Aveline. The son consequently marked it with F. Aveline filius sculp. We know of a series of earlier prints by Pierre showing the same theme, then after designs by François Boucher.

William Young Ottley, in his dictionary on engravers bearing the impressing title Notice of Engravers, and Their Works: Being the Commencement of a New Dictionay, which is not Intended to Continue, Containing Some Account of Upwards of Three Hundred Masters, with More Complete Catalogues of Several of the more Eminent than Have yet Appeared, and Numerous Original Notices of the Performances of Other Artists Hitherto Little Known (1831, available online here) criticized that “the four etchings by François-Antoine Aveline are “[…] poorly executed and were perhaps some of the artist’s first works.”

Nevertheless, this didn’t stop an unkown later artist to lay a fine grid on the etching to create a copy (perhaps a drawing) after the copy.

Already 400 years ago, it must have been a spectacular view: Sebastian Münster, the great German Cartographer and Scholar, described it as “a terrifying thing to look at: water turns to foam and white smoke (sic), and no boat, no fish is able to overcome this obstacle” (1).

It is the Cataracta Rheni, or the Rhine Falls (“Rheinfall”) as the cataract is called today. Situated along the Swiss-German border, the largest water fall in Europe is still an impressive sight: The Rhine river drops by 23 meters to form a miniature version of the Niagara falls – both places nowadays a popular tourist attraction featuring those little boats bringing the intrepid visitors to the spectacle as close as possible.

Sebastian Münster (1488-1552) published the first edition of his Cosmographia in 1544. It was the first description of the world in German, and featured a cornucopia of illustrating woodcuts: maps, portraits, plants and animals, not to forget the ubiquitous monsters. Although the description of the waterfall is rather precise, including the height of 12 “klafter” equaling roughtly 21 meters, the woodcut itself is rather schematic, depicting the river as a tongue-like, solid shape.

Nevertheless, this small woodcut has been long held as simply the first pictorial representation of the Rhine Falls. Not any more.

All print connoisseurs and scholars look away now: This is how to identify unknown prints with just a mouse click. All you have to provide is a digital version of your print in decent quality, say this one:

Read on how to identify the artist and name of this etching by just clicking on it.

We live in a world where texts are copy-pasted, images are being downloaded and uploaded again, tweets are re-tweeted and blog articles are re-posted. Standard multiplying procedures in the digital age. A few hundred years ago, the common procedure to multiply pictorial works on paper was to get prints first from woodcuts and later on from engravings on copper plates.

The modern German language offers some phrases and words which originate from these times. Let us have a somewhat nostalgic look at them.

The German word for the metal “copper” is “Kupfer”, thus we have:

“abkupfern”: Verb, meaning “to copy in a plagiary way”, to crib1. Often used in the present perfect form “abgekupfert” (copied).

“gestochen scharf”: Adjective, meaning “pin sharp”. “Gestochen” is the present perfect of “stechen”, meaning “to engrave”. This is related to the sharp edges of the lines engraved in the copper plate, creating a pin sharp image.

“Mein lieber Freund und Kupferstecher”: Literally “my dear friend and engraver”. A lightheartedly phrase used in the sense of “my dear old chap”.

“Die Presse”: “The press”, nowadays rather called “media”. Still widely used in the German words Presselandschaft and Pressesprecher.

The modern use of abkupfern and gestochen scharf is probably not too different from their original meaning. The derogatory touch of abkupfern may be related to the notion that engravers at the time had not only the necessary skills for faithfully copying works of art, but also for counterfeiting banknotes. This went along with the impression of engravings being mainly reproductive works lacking any creativeness.

The phrase “Mein lieber Freund und Kupferstecher” may have been in use much longer, but we know that the German poet Friedrich Rückert (1788-1866) used it as the opening words in letters to his dear friend and engraver Carl Barth (1787-1853), whom he devoted one of his rather cumbersome poems.2

The German novelist Theodor Fontane (1819-1898) used it in his play from 1892, “Frau Jenny Treibel”: “Das hat so sein sollen, Freund und Kupferstecher; mitunter fällt Ostern und Pfingsten auf einen Tag” – “Sometimes, dear old chap, Easter and Pentecost happen to be on the same day.” It is rather doubtful that these quotations were the only source for the widespread use of the phrase, as Lutz Röhrich pointed out.3

The widespread profession of an engraver has been long gone, but the charming, old-fashioned abkupfern and gestochen scharf are still in use today4. It is still perfectly normal to say that a blog entry has been abgekupfert, although no copper plates are involved in the process anymore, just buzzing photons in fiber cables.

I am sure other languages feature similar words originating from the analog age of engravings and printing presses, as the English word press5 itself.
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1 A side note on the verb “to crib”: The verb exists already in 1605, with the transitive meaning of “to put something into a crib” or “support it with a framework of timber”. It would be certainly interesting to retrace the story behind its intransitive form of “to plagiarize”.

Not really the first place you would look for an original etching: Last time, it was the kitchen, now it is (or rather: was) the bathroom of the Catholic University of America in Washington D.C. As reported by the Washington Post (and mentioned in numerous other places as well), a framed, potentially original Rembrandt etching, was discovered under a pile of junk in a bathroom twelve years ago. The print now has been confirmed to be an impression from the original plates, although it remains unclear in which year the print was made.

Judging from the photos, the print itself is not in a very pristine condition: foxing and tiny holes are witnesses of the not so optimal storage conditions this specimen had to withstand. It is quite curious that in the news coverage the print is referred to as the “mysterious Rembrandt” and nothing much is said about the etching itself . The translated french inscription “The bust of an old man with a great beard seen about most of the face…” is quoted to shed some light on the authenticity or the depicted character. Well, “a old man with a great beard” applies to a number of Rembrandt etchings, including his self portraits. What we have here is an imprint of the plate “Old Bearded Man in a High Fur Cap”, created in 1635 (B., Holl. 290; H. 130; BB. 35-3). The Detroit Institute of Arts web page features a nifty “zoom-in lens” of their specimen.

The etching at CUA can be seen in a small exhibition at UAC, Washington D.C., USA. There is also a short video on the history of the discovery (or should we rather say: unexpected find).

“When a copper engraving by Martin of St. Anthony beaten by the devils reached Florence, Michelangelo made a pen drawing and then painted it. To counterfeit some strange forms of devils he bought fish with curiously coloured scales, and showed such ability that he won much credit and reputation. He also made perfect copies of various old masks, making them look old with smoke and other things so that they could not be distinguished from the originals. He did this to obtain the originals in exchange for the copies, as he wanted the former and sought to surpass them, thereby acquiring a great name.”

In this colorful excerpt from the Lives of the Artists, Italian biographer Giorgio Vasari provides an interesting detail of the early years of Michelangelo Buonarotti (1475-1564) as a painter: He used a contemporary engraving by the German artist Martin Schongauer (ca. 1445-1491) as the model for his first steps as a painter. The engraving is one of Schongauer’s earliest prints (he was around 30 when he made it) and depicts Saint Anthony tormented by the Demons.

It is interesting to note here that in this case the engraving forms the original work of art providing the model for a painting; in later centuries (especially in the 18th century) prints would be the objet d’art par ecxellence serving as a faithful copy of a painting or a drawing.

In the recently opened exhibition Michelangelo’s First Painting, you now have the opportunity to first take a look at the original Schongauer engraving (unique in its collage of fantastic beasts and figures, reminiscent of later Pieter Bruegel paintings) and then decide for yourself whether those fish heads bought at the market indeed surpassed the copies.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York: Michelangelo’s First Painting. June 16, 2009–September 7, 2009. European Paintings Galleries, 2nd floor.

The iconic woodblock print In the well of the great wave off Kanagawa by Katshushika Hokusai (1760-1849) was sold at Christie’s for $68’500. The equally beautiful The Tama River in Musashi province from the same series Fugaku sanjurokkei (The thirty-six views of Mount Fuji) fetched $5’000.

Picture yourself having just acquired an old master print (say, a Rembrandt etching) at an auction. The print is in a exceptional good state, and you bought it at a reasonable price (“reasonable” meaning in reasonable relation to the size of your wallet, of course). After the auction, this well known old print conaisseur which you watched lingering around the specimens shown at the pre-sale exhibition approaches you and tells you with that calm voice expressing a life full of old master print expertise: “Madam/Sir, I have to to tell you: your print has been Schweidlerized“.

Schweidlerized? What does he mean?

The print is a fake (“swindle”)

The print has been skillfully repaired, virtually invisible to the eye, or

The print was sold (at an auction etc.) at a much higher price than what it is actually worth.

Read on for the solution and the rediscovery of a tremendously valuable book.

An early impression of the aquatinta etching “Muchachos al avío” (“Lads making ready”) by Francisco de Goya was found in the kitchen of the former residence of Slobodan Milosevic in Beograd. The plate 11 of the series “Los Caprichos” has been confirmed to be a first impression, published in 1799.

The plate had been part of the collection of former President Josip Broz Tito, for whom the residence originally was built. At the moment it is both unclear how it got there and what the wherebouts of other “disappared” items from the mentioned collection are.

A detail from a 17th century engraving shows English businessmen John Guy meeting Beothuk in Trinity Bay

An interesting dispute about a copperplate engraving published in 1628 depicting merchants from the Old World trading with Native Americans seems to be settled for now. Canadian archaeologist William Gilbert challenges the traditional interpretation of the scene taking place in New England, but rather interprets it as an early encounter of the English merchant John Guy with Beothuk Indians in Newfoundland, thus making it a part of early Canadian history.